Vindication
by visionette
Summary: Vindicate: To clear as from accusation, to justify, to get revenge, to liberate.  So Hermione Granger, laywer, intends to defend the infamous war villain, Severus Snape, despite her hatred of him. But things are not always as they seem.


Author's Notes: Ah, so... a very, very, _very_ long time ago, I wrote a good deal of fanfiction. Forgive me if I've lost my talent. And a hugely tremendous thanks to Verona, the very best beta in the whole world! (Anything here of merit is her talent, not mine!)

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR--I just like to take them out and play with them a bit.

* * *

She looked different. 

He wasn't sure if it was the pale flush to her cheeks, the smart gestures of her frail hands, or the boundless cold reflecting in her eyes, but she looked different. She was a mirror of the still stone walls behind her, and not the vibrant Gryffindor he remembered years before.

"Severus Snape." Her tone lashed his frayed nerves like a whip, the mere callousness in her voice striking him so harshly that he flinched. "You have been charged with the murders of Albus Dumbledore, Percival Weasley, and Viktor Krum as well as numerous charges of attempted _Crucio_, _Imperio_, and _Avada Kedavra_. You are also charged with the creation of a poison designed to obliterate Muggle London, a hex designed to permeate the wards of Hogwarts, and a potion crafted in order to bind the magics of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle together. How do you intend to plea?"

"Not very guilty."

Her lips pursed together, though it was the only reaction she bore to his words. It might have gone unnoticed, had he not been focusing so intently on trying to understand what she was saying. His head felt dizzy, as though he had stayed up drinking for too long the night before. He was sure he hadn't slept in several days, and so… and so maybe…

"Severus Snape, you do realize that 'not very guilty' is not at all helpful to this case? I assure you, such sarcasm is not appreciated."

She could be a little bit more sympathetic to his situation. She was the one dressed in the smart suit with the little glass of water by her elbow, not the one leaning heavily in his chair in attempt to remain consciousness. If the sharpening of her gaze was any indication, however, then she had no intention of softening.

"I can see myself in your eyes," he remarked hazily, only half-aware that he spoke the words aloud. It was true, however. He had not looked in a mirror for nearly a year, and to see the gaunt ghost of his reflection cast back at him made him feel as though perhaps he had died already.

Her frown tightened further, but this time, he took no notice. He was too busy studying the way his features seemed to be spinning, as if caught in some twisted Salvador Dali image.

"This is useless," she remarked, standing. Her heels clicked as she went to open the door, and then her stern voice addressed those waiting outside. "What, in Circe's name, have you done to the man? That's certainly not Veritaserum shooting out such madness. I cannot conduct…"

And then there was only peace.

* * *

"Severus Snape, let's try this again, shall we? You have been charged with the murders of Mr. Albus Dumbledore, Mr. Percival Weasley, and Mr.—"

"Yes, yes, I know. I killed them, after all. It's not like I've forgotten."

The remark was flippant, but she continued to react very little. The corner of her lips twitched down into a frown, the emotions in her eyes remaining distant, almost bored. "How kind of you to remember them." She continued on relentlessly. "_As I was saying_, Mr. Snape, you have been charged with the murders of Albus Dumbledore, Percival Weasley, and Viktor Krum as well as numerous charges of attempted _Crucio_, _Imperio_, and _Avada Kedavra_. You are also charged with the creation of a poison created to obliterate Muggle London, a hex designed to permeate the wards of Hogwarts, and a potion crafted in order to bind the magics of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle together. These are serious accusations, Mr. Snape."

"It hadn't occurred to me, Miss Granger," he stated plainly. "We prisoners have incredibly busy social lives, after all. No time for thinking at all." He was glad that, today at least, he seemed capable of a small portion of his own wit. He thought it something to do with the vitamin potions they had been shoving down his throat lately; he was under the impression that it had something to do with this girl.

"I would like to say I'm glad you have your mental capacities back, but it would be a lie." She stated this directly, as though it were no more than simple fact, and promptly shifted the stack of papers before her to accommodate her new goals. Her fingernails were slender, neatly trimmed, and painted a professional shade of peach. The warm colour was a sharp contradiction to the stony smoothness of her skin. "I would also appreciate it greatly if you would refer to me as Ms. Granger-Longbottom."

"Longbottom? What on Earth are you doing with that buffoon?"

If anything, her face became even more detached. There was only the slight rustle of the papers before her to indicate any emotion at all, and even then, he could detect nothing but her hesitation to answer the question.

"My personal affairs are of no concern to you, Mr. Snape. Yours, however, are of a great deal of concern to me. The last time we spoke, you claimed that you were—" she glanced at the pile before her "—not very guilty." Here, the sarcasm was undeniable.

"I did indeed, Ms. Granger."

A pregnant pause. Surely she hadn't assumed this would be an easy task. Defending one of the wizarding world's most detestable villains could hardly be considered a mediocre chore.

"Granger-Longbottom. And while I would love to make a laughingstock out of myself before the Wizengamot, Mr. Snape, I have no interest in spending my time researching the proper legal jargon associated with your defence." His first impression was that she was being unusually hostile towards his attitude—one she must have expected—before he thought to read further into her words. He hadn't been sure, at first, just what she was doing here. But of course, he had forgotten what his high profile case would mean to an aspiring lawyer. It would seem that she was using him.

He wasn't sure whether he should be angry or impressed.

"Nevertheless, I fear that the outcome of my case is going to remain the same, regardless of whether I pour my heart out to you in this dingy little room or not. I might, however, ask why you haven't simply administered the Veritaserum again? Don't tell me the Ministry has run out. I know their brewers are incompetent, but surely—"

She smirked. "If I could administer the Veritaserum to you without being charged for murder, believe me, I would. It seems that you've received some internal damage during your time in Azkaban, which has, sadly, caused so much havoc to your kidneys that certain potions would bring you only an agonizing, drawn out death." This time her pause was more deliberate, as she lifted a pen and twirled it idly between her fingers. "Of course, if you would like, I could also have you sign the release form—just to test the diagnosis, of course."

The pen made a butterfly shape in the air as she flipped it from knuckle to finger, the ghost of its passage an ebony blur. It reminded him vaguely of stormclouds that had gathered on that final day, but the shape of this was much too delicate. "That's quite alright, thank you. Perhaps I could consider your request for some future date?"

"Mr. Snape." She leaned forward, clasping her hands, eyes glinting for the first time, and he thought for a moment that she was about to make some empowering speech about how she was positive he was innocent and would be able to convince the Wizengamot of the same if he only he would admit it. "You are getting on my nerves. I don't have the time to waste on your humdrum babble, nor do I have time for your rather less than sharp wit. So tell me three things—only three—and I will leave you in peace until the day of the trial."

A deal with the devil, was it? And of course, those three questions would never have subsections—what did she take him for, an imbecile? "What three things, specifically?"

She paused, perhaps considering the weight of his words, before plunging gamely on. "First, on what did you base the research you performed while working for Tom Riddle? Second, what is the current residence of Blaise Zabini? And third…"

He frowned, eyebrows creased, even as he tried to discover why she was asking these particular questions.

"How, exactly, did you manage to contact me while I was under the Fidelius Charm?"

* * *

"You know, I think the draft in here is somehow worse in April than in February."

"Have we really reached that point, Miss Granger? Talking about the weather? Does this mean you've almost tired of bothering me enough to drop this silly case and move on?"

"I believe I've requested that you call me Ms. Granger-Longbottom, Mr. Snape. Nevertheless, you must be aware of the fact that today is the big day. At precisely nine a.m. this morning, your trial began."

"So sad I wasn't invited."

"Well, considering the lengthy description of your conduct you've given me, you can hardly be surprised. It's not as though you're contributing anything to this case and I'm sure they'd like to avoid having a dangerous Death Eater wandering the halls of the Ministry."

She rapped her fingers lightly against the desk, a gesture with which he had grown familiar in the past few months. It meant, he had deduced, that she was facing an insurmountable obstacle, and was preparing herself to hurdle over it.

"What did you base your research on, Mr. Snape?" He thought he detected a snap in her voice today. Odd, as she had yet to drop the frigidly indifferent atmosphere that she had presented at their first meeting. He had seen her a fair few times since then, and been faced with this same question certainly more than once, but never had expressed more than the most mundane of emotions.

"I believe I have told you, Miss Granger, that I have no idea as to what you are referring."

A long suffering sigh. The expression on her face was unamused—she must have been growing bored with this game of give and take, insults and commentary, but never the slightest hint of his answer. She may have been brilliant, but she was still a Gryffindor. After nearly two months, her patience had to be wearing thin.

"What will it take for you to tell me?"

Her voice was still like ice, but at least her fingers had stopped making patterns on the dull wood of the table. She had tried several methods of persuasion thus far, but he had yet to see her reach the point where she would relinquish that power to him.

He paused, pondering his options. Her promise that she would win this case. Her promise that she would _lose_ it. Her refusing to speak with Potter for a year. Her declaring her undying lust for Rita Skeeter to the press. Her tearing out that ridiculous bun and letting him see her as he remembered.

"Only the same as you have asked of me, Miss Granger."

The arch of her eyebrow was perfect, the message clear, even without the lips moving.

"Three questions. One, for what reason are you pursuing essentially the only career in the wizarding world that requires no magic? Two, why on earth are you wasting yourself on a creature like Neville Longbottom? And third…"

He leaned forward, clasping his hands before him in a perfect imitation of her former pose.

"Why would you believe me, when you think me a murderer many times over?"


End file.
